


Night Dragons

by oddsbodkins



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), i should be working on my WIP but i got Sad about these block boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:00:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27708703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddsbodkins/pseuds/oddsbodkins
Summary: A family reunited and redivided.Techno, Wilbur, Philza, and Tommy, in the aftermath of November 16th.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit & Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot, Niki | Nihachu & Wilbur Soot, Tommyinnit & Tubbo
Comments: 18
Kudos: 254





	1. Technoblade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of November 16th, after Techno's emptied out his base and resettled to the frozen wilderness, after explosion craters have been patched and new lines drawn in the sand, as the world settles into its new equilibrium, Technoblade sits on a roof in the cold, arctic night, and reflects on how it all went wrong.
> 
> *Now with Chapter 2 - Ghostbur Angst Electric Boogaloo.

The tundra was cold and unforgiving, which was, it was said, why Technoblade favored it.

He’d scoffed at that line before, but as he finished the installment of his newest base, his Fortress of Solitude in which to lick his wounds after the events of November 16th, he was starting to think there might be merit to the statement. It was becoming a pattern, at the very least.

It had actually been a while since he’d been so alone, he mused, putting the last of his things away. There would be more to cart around later, his trophy mobs to figure out the transportation of, but for now… for now, this would have to be enough. Night was encroaching, and he was tired.

He’d yet to wash the blood from his hands.

It peeled and flaked as he hauled himself up the ladder to the roof of his base, some of the debris fluttering into his eyes. He blinked it away in absent irritation as he popped out into the cold night.

He’d yet to place any torches around the area - both out of a desire for secrecy and a lack of time - so the sky was breathtakingly clear, and the monsters were impressively abundant. Perhaps that was why he favored the tundra so much - flat as it was, with the moon lighting up the snow in every direction, he could see their dark silhouettes for miles. It would be very difficult for his enemies to launch a stealth attack on him, so long as he lived here.

Cold, empty palaces after warm, cramped caves.

He told himself this was an improvement.

Up here, the cutting wind made him aware of all the cuts, scrapes, bruises and burns that he’d yet to tend to. He’d have to get around to that soon - make a tub, build a fireplace, and mine some ice to melt down. He added it to the never-ending list of tasks he had to complete, which had quadrupled in length after the last twenty-four hours.

And here he and Wilbur had been saying they’d finally have some time off, after this week. What an incredibly optimistic thought that was in retrospect.

Of course, Wilbur had apparently had his own plans, even then. And Techno had _definitely_ had his own suspicions. Hell, Techno had dozens of contingency plans, loading the deck with junk enchantments on Netherite armor and stacks of Wither skulls just _lurking_ in his Ender chest. They’d all had a smile on their face and a knife behind their back in the end, hadn’t they?

Mm, except, perhaps, Tommy. Tommy, for all his bluster, for all his lighthearted scamming and pranks, had seemed so genuinely shocked and betrayed that Techno had turned against him. Despite Techno having been nothing less than explicit in his goal of absolute anarchy, from the day he’d arrived.

Techno sighed, and scrubbed at his face with a messy, stinging hand. It was cold and wet from the snow.

He drew that hand back and considered it, and then in a burst of sudden rage, slammed it on his thigh. He hit the edge of a deep bruise - he shifted so that his palm pushed into the bruise even harder. The pain was grounding. The anger, and regret and hate and love and whatever the _fuck_ else he was feeling, that was dizzying.

How dare they, honestly. How dare they treat him like some pet Piglin, like some murder mascot, potato farmer grinder boy, how dare they take his shit and just turn around and cast him aside. How dare Tommy act like _Techno_ was the villain here, little more than a foil, an obstacle to be overcome so that Tommy might conclude his _hero’s journey_. How dare Wilbur leave him with this absolute fucking _mess_.How dare Phil -

The thought faltered with the air in his lungs.

Well. How could he blame his dad for mopping up their mess, like he’d always done? It’s not like Philza had let this all happen, not like he’d been there for it all, as Techno had.

No, he couldn’t blame Phil, not for just… doing what had to be done.

Another sigh. Techno turned his eyes up to the stars.

L’Manberg was probably in the process of rebuilding, by now. He wondered if they’d kept Tubbo as president, if the kid even _wanted_ to be President anymore, now that the town was more of a dilapidated shithole.

He remembered Tubbo screaming as he burnt to death, at the wrong end of Technoblade’s fireworks. Tommy had screamed just as much, running to get between them, finding himself too late, turning on the brother that had just killed his best friend. It had been messy. It had all been so _messy_.

The Withers had screamed, too, he was pretty sure. Had he screamed? He couldn’t say.

But the stars sure were pretty, all the way out here. At least that was something he could be certain of.

There was no Aurora Borealis, tonight, and vaguely he wondered if that had been a feature of the Antarctic Empire only due to its location on the South Pole. He missed it. The thin green and blue ribbons had been like nothing he’d ever seen before - he, Phil, and even occasionally Pete had used to sit out on a little hidden outcrop in the stronghold, douse all their torches, and just watch it for hours. Philza had called them the night dragons, in the way that man sought out the beauty in everything. It had been a painfully Romantic means of describing deadly radiation, and Technoblade had informed his father such - and Phil had just laughed and laughed, in the way that only he did at Techno’s jokes.

They’d actually prevented a few sneak attacks, that way - sitting out and watching the nights go by - though they weren’t exactly meaning to.

Memories cut through his malaise, and he smiled. That had been _funny_ , particularly the one night that Tommy had come creeping around with a hit out on Phil. They’d seen him coming and gunned down his plane before he could even land - “How do you always _know_ ,” Tommy’d yelled out in a mix of dismay, anger, and embarrassment, struggling to get out of the wreckage before it pulled him into the freezing water. “Don’t you ever _sleep_?”

“Don’ need it,” Techno had replied, hip propped up against the railing of the bridge as he’d watched Tommy’s efforts with lazy interest. “The power of the Blood God sustains me.”  
  
Tommy’s eyes had popped and he’d begun to sputter, because apparently even a line like that wasn’t too ridiculous to believe when it came to a man like Technoblade, and so had begun the rumor that Techno was a vampire. Which was honestly the _funniest_ rumor that circulated in his social orbit, so he’d let it go.

It was funny, but also frustrating to think back on. The days where he and Philza had been members of the Antarctic Empire, and Tommy their comedic rival in Business Bay, they had been so _simple_. He could stab people and nobody - well, nobody would yell at him except the person that he stabbed, but the stabbing was usually pretty justified, so their opinion didn’t really matter.

Here in these lands, these times, things were so double-sided. He got invited in for the explicit purpose of killing, then shamed for doing it. Tommy’d ask for his help, then send him away ‘cause he was ruinin’ the boy’s efforts to consort with the enemy, then call him right back again when it all backfired. It was a world built on _socialization_ , politicking and all the miscommunication and hurt feelings that can stem from such.

Violence was honest. Violence was straightforward.

...well, it'd used to be.

His hands were numb from where they rested against the icy rooftop. He could hear a skeleton clattering around the lower level of the house, and knew that he should probably go inside before it spotted him.

The stars were so beautiful, and he wanted to stay a little longer to appreciate them, but...

But he was alone now. He’d have plenty of time to appreciate them later - it’s not like the other nights would be any different.

_It’s a lonely path you’ve chosen for yourself, Blood God_ , he thought in a voice that sounded painfully close to Wilbur’s, as he climbed back inside and shut the trapdoor against the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn bro coulda just tweeted "i miss technoblade", woulda had the same effect
> 
> xx here's some the art that inspired me to write this fic!  
> techno and wilbur - @TrashsamaRE on twitter, [ this post](https://twitter.com/TrashsamaRE/status/1331201889463984129?s=20)  
> techno and phil - @JLemongrass on twitter (and insta lol) [this post](https://twitter.com/JLemongrass/status/1329448808078594052?s=20) and [this one](https://twitter.com/JLemongrass/status/1326948117892259841?s=20)


	2. Wilbur

Wilbur - Ghostbur - whoever he was now, the entity that had once been Wilbur Soot, President of L’Manburg - sat on a wooden bridge on a crisp fall night, and admired his work.

Not the work that he had been told was his own - the craters and waterfalls that now dotted the landscape. He didn’t like to look at those. Looking at them made something wiggle in his subconscious, a memory struggling to get loose like a survivor trapped under a piece of rubble. He shoved the memory back like stepping on a grasping hand, and looked at the work that he _did_ want to focus on - the Chinese lanterns that now dotted the sky.

They looked like stars, but better - which was nice, because it was so difficult to see the stars through the haze of the town’s streetlights. There was another memory - he could see the stars, some nights, when he left the ravine - but what ravine? Who was the warm presence that he remembered at his side, those nights? Was it multiple people? Why had they left him - where’d they gone?

More surviving memories that he wasn’t sure he wanted to see the faces of.

One of the last lanterns twisted in his hands, crumpling slightly as his hands convulsed, and he forced himself to take a deep breath and set it aside, before he could do more damage. He didn’t like being like this, but he got the feeling that unlocking his vault of memories would leave him - well, he’d like that even less. He saw this in the way that people talked to him, looked at him. It was in the way that his son looked so _surprised_ when Wilbur was happy to see him, or gifted him something as simple as a flower. It was in the way that his chest sometimes ached with cold, cold, cold, leaving him clawing at it in the dark and damp of his new home in the sewers.

Phil had caught him doing that, once. His father had dropped by for an impromptu visit late at night - something about being in town for other business and wanting to say hello - and Wilbur hadn’t heard the door open, struggling to say grounded as he was. No, he hadn’t heard Phil until the man was practically on top of him, loud and sudden, hands reaching out as if they could stop Wilbur from hurting himself, but just phasing right through. He’d been crying. That small surprise had been enough to knock Wilbur out of his feedback loop - he’d reached up, sensation intermittent as he flickered between dimensions - and brushed a hand over his dad’s cheek.

“Phil, you’re crying. You never cry.” He’d croaked. And then with a small frown. “Please stop.”

Phil had slumped back as Wilbur had restabilized, but at that just started crying harder. He’d left soon after, apologizing profusely. Wil had tried telling him he had nothing to apologize for, but that hadn’t seemed to help.

He had a sneaking suspicion that making sense of that interaction was another survivor in the rubble, which just strengthened his conviction that his past life wasn’t something he really wanted to unearth.

Bad memories. He sighed, and picked up the lantern to fiddle with it again. It wasn’t a life that he particularly wanted to back to, but not exactly one that he could leave behind. Such was the nature of being a ghost.

He’d considered passing on, taking the next step, starting anew, in whatever form that might take. But… well, to be honest, he was scared. Scared of leaving this all behind, even if he’d already fucked it all up. He’d told the others he intended to right his old wrongs, but really, in a way he felt just as selfish as his previous version had been. He felt like an imposition, a literal skeleton in the closet, holding everybody back from moving on. But he just couldn’t make himself leave.

There was a flutter on the breeze as another presence, also non-living, came into existence beside him.

“Kinda bold of you to be sitting out here, huh? Considering everything the two of us did to this place.”

“Hello, Schlatt.” Wilbur said, not looking up from his lantern. “I’d heard that you were dead, as well, but I haven’t seen you around.”

“Ah, I’m stuck on Quackity. Gonna see if I can bully the kid into bringing me back. You know how it is,” the other ghost shrugged. He had ram horns, as a ghost - perhaps the subconscious was more honest when one wasn’t limited by physical manifestation.

“I don’t know, actually.” Wilbur said thickly, then cleared his throat. “I don’t want to come back. I’m fine with things as they are.”

“Yeah, but that’s the thing, isn’t it? You don’t have to _want_ to come back - you’ve got people to bring you back regardless. I’d be shocked if Philza, or Tommy, or any one of ‘em doesn’t get that shit figured out by the end of the month. Me? I’ve only got myself to rely on. And I’m not so keen on passing into the void, or whatever we’re supposed to be doin’.” Schlatt snorted contemptuously.

“It didn’t have to be like that, you know,” Wilbur drawled, and saw a flicker of gunpowder on his hands. It was gone just as quickly as it appeared, but it left him feeling uneasy. He continued, more subdued, “You set yourself against everybody. You drove them away. It didn’t have to be like that.”

“Are we talking about you or me?” And as always Schlatt was a little too quick, a little too sharp. Wilbur lit the lantern in his hands and sent it off to join the others, flicking the burnt-out match Schlatt’s way. After a moment, the other man sighed and relented.

“Ok, yeah, I goofed it. The living fuck up. Isn’t that what we’re all entitled to? The opportunity to fuck up?” He paused, contemplative. “I didn’t really want to be the good guy, anyways. I don’t think that you did either.”

“No, that’s Tommy’s purview,” Wilbur agreed with a slight laugh.

“Mm. Then what’re you doing out here, Wilbur? What’dya have to atone for? That is,” he continued when Wilbur turned to look at him, “It seems to me like that’s what you’re looking for. Somebody to forgive you. Some way to make it up to people. Why bother?”

“Why bother?” Wilbur’s forehead furrowed in confusion, bordering on a scowl. “What do you mean, why _bother_? I hurt so many people - _we_ hurt so many people - and just ‘cause _you_ don’t care doesn’t mean that I can just, I dunno, let it all _go_. They all deserve better, from me, at the very least.”

“Ah, but do they.” Schlatt leaned back on his hands, and Wilbur’s eyes flicked once again to the ram horns. They were large, and sharp, and oddly suited the man - like he’d always had them, and Wilbur’d just never noticed before.

Schlatt started talking again, and Wilbur snapped back to attention. “And what about all the people that hurt _you_ , Wilbur? Like, oh, I dunno - let’s take Fundy as an example. I know you’re all heartbroken ‘cause you were such an awful dad and the kid doesn’t like you anymore.”

“That’s a rather… brutal way of putting it.”

Schlatt gestured dismissively. “Sure, whatever. So Fundy hates you now, and you’re doing your damndest to make it up to him. But what about all the shit he did to _you_? Huh? He turned his back on you. Walked straight into my arms just to spite you. Burned your damn flag. Has he ever apologized for any of that? Made it up to _you_ , in any way?”

“Well, no,” Wilbur said hesitatingly, fisting his hands in his lap. “But he shouldn’t have to. I’m his dad. I should’ve… it’s my fault, for not being better to him. It’s not like I lacked the opportunity.” He shook his head, like that might also shake off the thoughts.

“Alright, fine. What about your brother, then? Little Tommy? Did he ever apologize for annoying the living daylights out of you? Not being there when you needed him? Contradicting and undermining you at every step, not _listening_ when that was all you _needed_? Huh?”

Wilbur was silent. Schlatt plowed on.

“Or, hell, what even about your own dad? Has he even fucking talked to you? Apologized? Do you even _know_ what he - “

“Don’t, Schlatt.”

There was blood on his hands, amidst the soot and the gunpowder. He hadn’t noticed before. It seemed - it was wet, and his chest ached. It was his own, right? Where did it - how did he end up like this? What had happened?

Schlatt was watching him, expression teetering between wary and weary. “Don’t what, Wilbur. Don’t say the truth? Right, I forgot you were doing this baby, ‘I don’t remember anything’ schtick. Tell me, how far do you think this will get you? How long do you think you can get away with it, if even hearing about how you died sets you off?” He leaned in, as if to share a secret, and the point of his horn just barely caught on the shoulder of Wilbur’s sweater. “Let me tell you something, Wil. You’re _dead_. Somebody _killed_ you. And that _somebody_ was none other than your _own f_ \- “

“ _I said_ _fucking_ ** _stop_**!” The soft lamplight around them dissolved into darkness and void, the sound of water and wind into hissing static. Blood was pouring out of his chest, out of his mouth, and he _ached_ in the _cold_ -

There was a noise beyond the void, the sound of a voice calling his name, and as sudden as it’d happened all of it was gone, even jschlatt himself. Wilbur was alone again, on a wooden bridge in the gentle night, but for a second.

Then, creaking footsteps heralded Niki’s arrival.

“Wilbur, is that you? What’re you doing out here so late at night?” His friend asked, coming to a stop a meter or two away.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he rasped with a smile that she didn’t quite return.

“Well, I thought I heard raised voices, and after everything that happened the other day, I haven’t been able to sleep well, so I thought that I might check… are you, are you alright?”

“Me? Yes, I’m fine. I’m just… hanging out, you know.” He laughed, but it came out distorted and forced. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, well, you just look… I mean, I know that you’re pale and all, being a ghost, but you just look… paler than usual. Um,” she cringed, a little bit, and a surivor’s grasping hand wrapped around his ankle - Niki completely at ease with him, the town around them radically different, protected by thick black walls and with the sun in their hair. He ignored it - Niki was talking again. “Were you - were you speaking with anybody? Just now?”

Was he? He tilted his head as he considered the question.

There had been ram horns. A sheep? Had he been talking to a sheep? No, there’d been dark, keen eyes, as well. There’d been blood. Too many - too much… he - he couldn’t quite grasp the thought.

“Uh, I think I might’ve been, but I’m afraid I can’t quite - can’t quite remember.” He laughed again sheepishly, and it wasn't any better than before. Niki still didn’t laugh along.

“That’s alright.” Her eyes were so, so solemn. What had happened?

“I want to make things better, Niki.”

“I know you do. Don’t worry, it’ll… it’ll get better. We’ll make it better.”

“We will.” He smiled up at her, then laughed in surprise. “Get it? We _will_. That’s me!” He laughed again.

She smiled at him, this time, and he was so caught up in his own joke that he didn’t notice her turn to discretely scrub away some tears. “Good one,” she said, and he beamed.

“Did I ever tell you about these lanterns? Me ’n Phil used to make them.”

“I think you might have,” his friend said, taking a seat next to him and dangling her own legs over the side of the bridge. “But tell me again.”

And so he did. The night passed on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact - wrote the majority of this in a Toyota dealership as my car was getting serviced. Kinda ruins the mood, hm?
> 
> But yeah, I wrote Techno's chapter last night and really thought this fic would be a oneshot, then I woke up and was like.... but Ghostbur though.
> 
> xx I hope ao3 doesn't break these - cool art that inspired me to write!  
> quackity and schlatt - @SCREW4VE on twitter, [this piece](https://twitter.com/SCREW4VE/status/1331393113827520512?s=20)  
> more of that - @bottledblu on twitter, [this piece](https://twitter.com/bottledblu/status/1328602795814039552?s=20>this%20post</a>%0Ageneral%20image%20of%20jschlatt%20-%20@herbivorobert%20on%20twitter,%20<a%20href=)  
> ghostbur - @shrimpytime on twitter, [this piece](https://twitter.com/shrimpytime/status/1330996405075402755?s=20)  
> ghostbur, the heart thing - @ggneedshelp on twitter, [this piece](https://twitter.com/ggneedshelp/status/1330792364739158026?s=20)  
> literally just the entirety of this chapter, so so good - @JazeTallo on twitter, [this post](https://twitter.com/JazeTallo/status/1331048431167676419?s=20) and the one after it!


	3. Phil

His hand still trembled from time to time. That was to be expected.

It was strange, to have full Netherite armor but not even a dirt shack to sleep in, a place where he could wash off the blood with some privacy. He’d ended up trailing after Techno in the aftermath of it all, his son chattering away in that disturbingly bright manner he always affected after bloodshed. Neither of them said anything about Wilbur - not as Techno showed Phil his now not-so-secret vault, not as he complained about government and Pogtopia’s lamentable but not unexpected betrayal, not even as Techno finally wrapped up his things for the night and vanished into some unknown branch of the cave to finally sleep, after days of battle and intrigue.

So that was how Phil ended up washing the blade of his borrowed diamond sword in the river above Techno’s base, water cold to the point that his hands were numb and he fumbled it, cutting a long gash along his palm.

He sat back on his heels, staring at the welling blood with some shock. The sharpness of the blade, and the coldness of the water, was such that he didn’t even feel the pain for several long moments.

  
Then, a drop of red spattered onto the shining blue blade, followed by another, and another. He swallowed and set it aside, but not before the blood ran down the center divot to mix with Wilbur’s in the water.

He shuddered and squeezed his hands into fists, mindless of the damage. And once he started, he couldn’t seem to stop - he doubled over, gasping, throwing out a hand to try and prop himself up only to crumple as bits of gravel shoved themselves into his cut in bright points of unexpected agony. So he lay there, shuddering, eventually bringing his bloody, gritty hands to cover his eyes. His fingernails bit into his forehead and tears stung his wound.

He really had only meant to stop Wilbur. Yes, he’d walked into that room with a sword, and yes, to unsheathe a weapon is to invite the commitment of violence, but _really_ , he’d just meant to _stop_ him, never… never to…

More painful, wracking sobs. He couldn't stop.

There were only the stars and moon with him now. One son dead, one son betrayed, the other supposed to be sleeping in the earth beneath him - but Phil wasn’t fooled by Techno’s bright demeanor. He’d seen the way his son's hands had shook, how his eyes had darted around his ransacked base. He’d heard the murmuring as they’d left L’Manberg, seen Tommy and Tubbo’s hard stares. With Wilbur and Schlatt dead, with Dream and his company rendered untouchable by treaty, that left only Techno as a convenient outlet for their rage and grief.

Yes, Philza had seen Tommy’s face as he, their father, had left in this supposed traitor’s wake. Phil doubted that Tommy would ever be alright with Techno again, but he could also say that he’d have his own troubles with Tommy the next time they crossed paths.

  
  
Really, every moment he spent here, ostensibly in Techno’s company and thereby in tacit support of him, was probably another point against him in Tommy’s book. That would be a pain to deal with.

Sobriety, consciousness, was a slow and painful thing. There were parts of him that were cold and unemotional, always taking stock of his environment - he could hear the groaning of a zombie that was probably making its way towards him, there was a creeper on the opposite bank watching him with its bulging fish-eyes but otherwise unmoving, most other mobs stymied by the line of torches around Techno’s wheat field - but the rest of him was stuck in a feedback loop of Wilbur’s crazed smile, how he begged Phil to kill him, how he’d slumped against Phil’s body and scrabbled at his father’s coat as he slid sickly further down the blade -

Phil’s vomit ended up joining the blood in being washed down the stream, out to sea.

-

That had been a few weeks ago, now. Phil had set up his own house in L’Manberg - well, he’d wanted to follow Techno off to wherever he was moving, but Techno was still flighty after this most recent betrayal, and the unbroached topic of Wilbur’s death stood between them.

It was a nice little townhouse. It wasn’t like the palaces that he’d had in other times - other worlds - but it was cute, cozy. Tommy was around more often than not, but as always, chaos dogged at his youngest’s heels, and that wasn’t something Phil could protect him from, anymore. Plus, if Wilbur’s death had driven a wedge between him and Techno, then it had erected a whole goddamn wall between him and Tommy.

That isn’t to say that Tommy didn’t _understand_ why he’d done it - hell, Tommy probably understood better than anyone why things had gone down the way they did, given how much time Tommy and Wilbur had spent together in PogTopia, for the entire excruciating length of Wilbur’s downward spiral.

Phil and Tommy had some quiet late-night conversations, the two of them, both carefully skirting around too-raw truths even as they tried to be there for each other. It was uncomfortable, but - well, at least it was something.

It had been a dreary morning the first time he caught sight of the ghost of his middle son, drifting down one of the boardwalks that now ran throughout the town, and for a while he was left thinking he’d made his own descent into madness - that it was truly catching.

He flexed his right hand, where the gash across his palm had finally closed over, but just wouldn’t quite heal.

But no, he wasn’t crazy, Wilbur really had come back from the dead as a cheerful, amnesiac ghost, and he was living in the sewers, and this was Phil’s life now. One son living off the tundra as an anarchist, another son hating the prior for ‘betraying’ him, and the third dead by his own hands but somehow still around.

And who didn’t remember a thing about the way he died.

It was a complicated web they wove, these children. It made him miss the relative simplicity of just struggling to stay alive.

-

The day that Phil realized just how badly everything had been fucked up was the day that he’d stopped by Wilbur’s sewer home for a surprise visit.

It wasn’t something he really liked to think about.

-

So it was that he was awake, late one night, to catch sight of a familiar figure as he went to draw his curtains. It was Wilbur, distinctive in his yellow sweater, surrounded by lanterns and talking with another smudgy figure - this one a little more difficult to make out.

Phil’s breath stuttered when he saw the lanterns, and realized that the soft light illuminating the town wasn’t just the streetlights, as he’d thought, but rather dozens of them already hanging in the sky.

God, he was undeserving of his sons.

He and Wilbur had - well, back when Wil was much younger, sullen and rebellious and resentful of the world, he and Wil had spent a lot of time together, just one-on-one. Techno was emotionally stable enough at that point to be by himself, to seek out solitude, even, and it was before Tommy so thoroughly upended their quiet little family. Wil had needed him. So he’d been there.

And this had been one of the things that they did, just the two of them, was make those lanterns. He barely even remembered where he’d first learned how to put them together - the lifetimes blurred together at this point - but it had been a constructive use of time and a good direction for Wilbur’s destructive, pyrotechnically-inclined energies.

And it had been beautiful.

Sometimes Techno had come out to watch them, though he never really joined in himself. His eldest had always been smart - perhaps he could tell that Wilbur needed something that just he and Philza could share, something unique to the two of them. God bless, Techno had his jealous moments, but he was always so good about respecting Wilbur’s needs.

So Techno had rarely joined them.

But Phil did remember, a lifetime ago, sitting on the ledge outside of their base in the Antarctic Empire, one of those quiet nights where the night dragons came out (and how Techno had rolled his eyes when he called the Aurora Borealis that, how fondly he’d smiled) and it was just the two of them, Techno had brought them up.

“Do you remember those lanterns you ’n Wil used to make? In the summer?”

“Of course. Why?” Phil had replied lazily, leaning against the opposite wall and not quite looking away from the night.

“No real reason, I guess. I was just thinking of them.” Techno said, and at this, Phil _did_ look - Techno wasn’t really the kind for idle, partial thoughts. Phil didn’t reply, and Techno continued, as he’d hoped.

“I guess I… just miss us all bein’ together. It’s been a while.”

“It has,” Phil sighed. “At least we’re all in the same world again, if not all quite on the same team.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s somethin’. At least I got you,” Techno smiled, which morphed into a smirk. “Tommy must be so jealous.”

Phil rolled his eyes. “He could join our team anytime he wants, and he ought to know that. It’s not my fault you’re all so goddamn competitive.”

“But Phil,” Techno drawled, and that uncharacteristic wistfulness finally seemed to drop away in its entirety, “Bullyin’ Tommy’s so _fun_.”

“Mm,” was all Phil said in reply, but he smiled.

Yeah, he and his sons might not all be on the same team, but they were around, and he saw them often enough. It worked.

-

Phil was pulled out of this flashback of a memory by some strange development over on the boardwalk - Wilbur raising his voice at whoever was sitting with him (another ghost?)

A dark fog exploded around where they were sitting, like nothing Phil had ever seen before. He was moving before he even knew it, grabbing his sword, no time for armor but there was a satchel with his emergency kit by his bed -

His hands shook even more as he fumbled with the door. But by the time he finally got outside - really just seconds later - that strange haze was gone, as was the other ghost. Instead there was a girl standing a little ways down, pale with long blonde hair - Niki, he thought.

They were talking, now, Niki and Wilbur, and after a moment Wil laughed and Nikki sat just where the other ghost had been sitting, dangling her own legs over the edge. The night was calm and warm. After a long moment where nothing else happened, Phil let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.

Wil was - Wilbur was fine. He wasn’t needed. In fact, joining them now would probably make everything worse, given how his... well, _everything_ had gone here so far.

Quietly, so that the pair on the bridge might not notice, he let himself back inside the house, and finally went to bed. Across town, a set of pale eyes noticed lights going out in a particular house, and their owner faltered mid-sentence.

“Wil, are you alright?”

“Hm? Oh yeah, yeah, I’m uh… I’m fine. What were you saying?”

“I was asking if you could maybe teach me how to make these lanterns, sometime.”

“I could, um… I – sure. Of course.” Wilbur said, flickering as a wash of cold ran through his body, for what seemed to be no reason at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I just have a fascination with hands. Maybe I should rename this “bloody hands” or something else just incredibly on the nose, in that vein :)
> 
> Not entirely happy with this chapter, but I've reached the point where I can't stand to look at it anymore, lmao. Tommy chapter next, 'cause why not. We'll see how that goes, I guess? I think I relate to Wil and Techno more, so they're easier to write for me, so we'll just... have to see. lmao.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy! Please remember to comment if you can :D


	4. Tommy

It had been a long night.

Tommy sniffed and rubbed at his nose, grimacing when the back of his hand came back bloody. He’d been knocked over by one of the explosions - perhaps The Big TNT Explosion, he couldn’t really remember - and busted up his nose real good. It’d been bleeding on and off ever since, mostly whenever he forgot about it being injured and irritated it in some way.

He let the blood trickle down his face. Honestly, it wasn’t as if he could get any dirtier.

He was sitting on the hill overlooking L’Manberg - or, well, what used to be L’Manberg. A steaming crater now.

Was it better or worse than L’Manberg under Schlatt’s administration? I mean, at least he could sit here, now. And they could rebuild.

He closed his eyes, and for a second, he could imagine himself back at the start. Him, Tubbo, and Wil, sitting in the sunshine in those dumb, scratchy uniforms. Van at their back, walls around them, endless promise of a free future lying ahead.

The grass crunched behind him, and he opened his eyes again. L’Manberg - Manburg, even - was still gone. He sighed, and scratched his head, mindless of the messy, tangled snarls in his hair.

“Tommy? I thought I saw you up here,” Tubbo’s voice rang out from the dark behind him, and he twisted.

“Over here,” he called, and his best friend’s head popped around a tree in response.

“Oh! Hiya,” he said, and plopped down next to Tommy.

“Hey,” Tommy muttered in reply, plucking a blade of grass from the ground and systematically ripping it to bits. He could feel Tubbo’s gaze on the side of his head like a physical touch.

“Long day,” Tubbo said eventually.

Tommy snorted. “You could say that again.”

There was a pause, then Tubbo started, “Long d - “

“Shut up,” Tommy laughed, pushing at him. Tubbo fell over, pushing back, also laughing as he eventually acquiesced to the rough treatment. Tommy eventually leaned back and Tubbo sat back up, brushing the grass off his clothes. One of his fingers caught in a burn hole and he cursed as the shirt ripped further; Tommy couldn’t help but track the motion, notice the new, corresponding scarring underneath.

“Did it hurt?” He asked abruptly.

“Did what hurt?” Tubbo asked, looking over at him in surprise.

“The, um. When Techno killed you. With the rockets.”

“Oh. Which time - today, or at the festival?”

“Either, I guess. I didn’t ask, before, and it’s just now occurring to me that that was… pretty shitty.”

“No, it’s alright. The first time was more scary than anything - it was too fast to hurt. This time he was further away, and took longer to reload, so I had a few seconds to feel it burning.” Tubbo pushed his sleeves up and ran a hand down his forearm. “One of ‘em clipped me right here and blew my arm to bits. That really sucked.” He let the sleeve fall back and looked at Tommy, then shrugged. “So yeah, I guess you could say so.”

Tommy gritted his teeth, looking away and letting the air hiss out from between them. Rage like he’d never felt before filled his chest, electric like adrenaline.

“Tommy?” Tubbo said as the silence stretched out. “Are you… alright? You’ve been gone for a pretty long while - people were,” he cut off with a chuckle, “People were starting to wonder if Techno came back and finished the job on, y’know, _Mister Theseus_.”

No response. Tubbo soldiered on. “Didja hear that he just assassinated GeorgeNotFound? He did like, a stealth hit, before he left the area. ‘Cause George is king now, ’n all.”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh. Um, alright then.”

They could hear the sound of people talking in the distance, from where they clustered around the edge of the L’Manberg crater. Philza was somewhere around; Tommy would have to go talk to him, soon enough. He didn’t know what to say.

He couldn’t get the image of Phil standing over Wil’s body out of his head - tall and proud even with his wings reduced to tattered stumps, blood glinting on his diamond sword as his son slipped off of it.

The thought was enough to make him want to vomit again.

“You don’t seem fine,” Tubbo said quietly.

Tommy recoiled, opening his mouth to snap back, but his eyes caught on those burn scars again. He fisted his hands in the grass and tried focusing on his breathing. In and out to manage the rage, just like Techno had shown him.

“No. But I - you have much more reason than me to be not ok,” He finally managed. Tubbo had been watching solemnly, patiently.

“Just ‘cause I have more reasons doesn’t mean I have more of a right. You can be upset, Tommy. Nobody’s gonna fault you for it.”

“Wilbur would’ve.”

Tubbo opened his mouth to respond, then hesitated. Tommy scoffed and looked away.

“I know. ‘Wilbur’s not here anymore.’”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You were going to.”

“But I _didn’t_.” Tubbo poked him in the side, and Tommy winced as it hit one of his scrapes. The other boy withdrew his hand quickly. “It’s true though. Wilbur… whatever he was, towards the end, he’s not here anymore. It’s just us.”

Tommy hummed, then huffed a laugh. “I think it’s only _ever_ been just the two of us, Tubbo.”

“Hell yeah. I’ve got your back, dude.” Tubbo rocked into him, and Tommy braced against his weight habitually.

“Of course. I’m - hey. Maybe I don’t say this enough, but I’m lucky I have you - even if I don’t have anybody else.”

Tubbo raised his hand for a fist bump, and rolling his eyes but smiling all the while, Tommy reciprocated.

They stumbled back down the hill a while later, and the thoughts of blood and betrayal were temporarily chased from Tommy’s mind.

-

Two weeks later, to the day, Tubbo exiled him from L’Manberg.

His eyes were dark, and he seemed to be looking at a point beyond Tommy, as Fundy and Quackity shouted at the new President in surprised rejection. That very hill they’d sat upon silhouetted Tubbo as he committed to his judgement, and Tommy -

Dream’s hand was warm on his shoulder as the world he’d been rebuilding fell away, this time for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well i've finally got this fic done. 👍 
> 
> inspo:  
> [innocence](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JyI39yYk0-Y) by late august  
> [desolate](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=olkYgvVzNmI) also by late august !  
> [dawn of the sixteenth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jvVbaLINHk0) by sad_ist, esp for the bit about phil's wings
> 
> <3

**Author's Note:**

> "and i won't be the victim,"  
> innocence, madeon


End file.
